Shortcuts

by Grant Stone

  Some large part of her wanted nothing more than to stay. To walk the paths under the trees, listening to the singing of the leaves until the Dancing Man returned. But Slipper was still out there. And it was not her place to be here. Not yet, anyway, she thought, with a sense of loss that felt like a dagger.

  She turned and walked towards the path that led back to the farm. Just before she slipped beneath the boughs, the man called.

  ‘Not that way. Go the way you came.’

  Rachel frowned. She was going the way she came. She—

  She looked again. She was standing directly in front of the weirder way, the path that sloped upwards yet was not on a hill. She backed away. It seemed there were worse dangers than Slipper in the Forest Beneath.

  She made her way around the clearing. When she reached the real path she turned and the man nodded. ‘Stay on the path,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you,’ Rachel said.

  THE SUN WAS SO BRIGHT she had to blink away tears. Rachel took another step and stopped. She did not remember the journey from the clearing to here. A heartbeat ago she had been in the clearing, deep in the Forest Beneath. It was as if she had arrived here with a single step. She thought of how close she had been to inadvertently taking the weirder way, wondered where else she might have gone with a single wrong step, and shivered.

  The mighty ur-oaks of the Forest Beneath were no longer visible. Only the original trees, the wind-bent macrocarpa scratching the sky.

  Morning was burning the dew from the grass. She could hear the buzzing of bees. A line of cows was being led away from the milking shed.

  Rachel took a deep breath. The air was humid and smelled of grass, diesel, shit. As she breathed, she felt the memory of better air. As if she had been somewhere recently, some other, more real world.

  ‘There you are!’

  Katherine St. John was striding towards her in a pair of old, dirt-encrusted jeans, a flannel shirt and a hat that looked like it had been snatched from a cricket umpire's head. There was nothing of the ethereal musician about her; she looked as if she'd spent her whole life on this farm, walking this dry grass under the scorching southern sun.

  ‘Wondered if you'd gone out for a walk. I love it first thing in the morning, when everything's new and the rest of the world hasn't woken up yet.’

  ‘I – yes,’ Rachel said, ‘thought I'd take a stroll.’ But the words felt wrong in her mouth. She remembered sunrise striking the wall of the bedroom. She had dressed and decided to see the farm. She remembered, but there was something else, as if the memory stood in front of something else, blocking it from view. She turned and looked again at the pitiful stand of trees she had thought of as the forest for some reason. There couldn't have been more than ten of them and they looked so dry that they'd crumble in a strong wind. Hadn't there been something else, something—

  ‘I've got the kettle on,’ Katherine said. ‘Let's go back to the house.’

  ‘HAVE YOU GOT EVERYTHING you need?’ Katherine called from the kitchen.

  Rachel blinked, lost in a waking dream. There had been a path, and an orange moon. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Don't you head back to Auckland today? Or have I got the day wrong.’

  Rachel pulled her phone from her pocket and checked the date. Friday. She'd spent a week on St. John's farm, although it didn't seem more than a couple of days. ‘No, you're right.’

  Katherine placed her royal wedding commemorative tea set on the table.

  The voicemail icon was flashing on her phone. Rachel couldn't imagine who had been trying to call her, or why she hadn't heard it.

  Katherine finally finished fussing in the kitchen and sat down. ‘The garage called. Car's all ready to go. Tony will drop it over this morning. Was there anything else you wanted to discuss?’

  Rachel struggled to remember what they'd spoken about the past few days. She remembered recording a few conversations. But had she captured anything really new? Did she have enough to put together a story? If not, it was too late to do anything about it now.

  ‘I think I've got everything, thanks.’

  SHE WAS PACKED BY THE time Tony from the garage parked her rental in front of the house and refused any form of payment. ‘Don't worry,’ Katherine said, ‘It's all taken care of. Least I can do for the last remaining female rock reporter.’

  Rachel had no answer.

  When she'd loaded everything into the car, Katherine hugged her, an embrace that didn't seem to end. ‘It's been fun,’ Katherine said, when she finally let Rachel go. ‘It's been good to have someone else to talk to.’

  Rachel didn't know how to respond. ‘Just doing my job.’

  ‘Well.’ Katherine looked like she was going to say something else, but didn't. The silence stretched.

  Katherine waved in her rear-view mirror until the driveway curved around a stand of trees.

  She smelled something when she stopped the car and got out to unhook the gate. She followed her nose. A dead possum was sitting on a fencepost, surrounded by flies. Rachel kicked the post and the possum tumbled off into the grass.

  ‘Little monkey,’ she said to herself as she climbed back into the car, then wondered why she'd said it.

  She didn't remember the voicemail until she was checked in and waiting in the departure lounge. The most impatient passengers were already forming a line. Rachel accessed her inbox and joined them.

  One message, two days ago, from Simon.

  ‘Don't know what you're doing out there, if this is the kind of research you're after. But short answer, no. The oldest oak trees in New Zealand are maybe a hundred years, tops. I don't know what you're seeing but they're definitely not oaks. Must be some kind of native, although I can't imagine which one. Get back here with my story and stop messing around with trees.’

  The line was moving now, people shuffling forward on to the plane. She had no recollection of calling Simon at all. There was a fuzziness around the corner of her vision. Jetlagged for the whole trip. Some kind of record.

  Rachel checked her bag again. The laptop was in there, and the KD-2, buried under a pile of cassette tapes. She'd work on the story during the flight, listening to her recordings in the darkened cabin while the rest of the passengers slept. She'd have a story for Simon by the time she reached Heathrow. He probably wouldn't be happy with it. Then again, he never was.

  Rachel looked down at the land as the plane rose. The roads and buildings dwindled, until there was nothing but the green of the hills and the grey blue of the sea. She looked down until the plane hit the clouds and there was nothing to see but the falling night.

  When she finally turned away from the window she was surprised to find tears on her cheeks.

  ST. JOHN PRODUCED THE album herself from her New Zealand farm, teaching herself new instruments and how to drive the mixing desk in the process. ‘It was very important, I think, to do it all myself. These songs are close to me and I feel that I have a responsibility to present them as purely as I can. There's a journey I take when I'm putting them together. It's like ... It's like I'm walking in an ancient wood. And I can hear the songs there, almost as if the trees themselves are singing, I—’

  She stops, smiles, shakes her head. ‘I'm being terribly indulgent.’ She sips her tea. ‘But I had to do it alone. Just me and my muse. He gets jealous when there are other people about.’

  —From The Miracle Child Returns, again, an interview with Katherine St. John, Sounding, April 2014

  Mika

  Lee Murray & Piper Mejia

  PROLOGUE

  Las Vegas, 2034

  Atticus Tāura shakes his head. ‘We have to withdraw it, Selwyn. We have to. It isn’t ethical.’

  Selwyn Bruce, CEO of B-Cell, lets the statement hang in the air. He strolls to the window of the eighteenth-storey Las Vegas boardroom, takes a moment to adjust his tie – a Daniella Cavelli in watered pink silk – and runs his hand over his stomach. Then he turns to the gathered vice-presidents.

  ‘I think
, what is important to remember here, is our original intent—’

  ‘To improve the lives of the sufferers of diabetes,’ Andi Canterell, VP of Human Resources interrupts. The CEO gives her a sharp look.

  ‘Sorry.’ Canterell picks up her pen and busies herself scribbling nervously on her legal pad.

  ‘As Ms Canterell has pointed out, B-Cell’s intent when we embarked on this line of research, was altruistic. And it still is, Atticus.’ Selwyn takes a step closer and puts a hand on Atticus’ shoulder. ‘We have a real ability to help these people, just not in the way we originally perceived. It isn’t ethical for us to withhold that help.’

  ‘But we’re responsible. We made it!’

  ‘Well, technically, you made it,’ Canterell mutters, evoking a titter from the other VPs.

  ‘And it’s not our fault that the new insulin proved unstable over time,’ Selwyn asserts. ‘The backlash was Nature’s doing.’

  ‘We should have foreseen it,’ Atticus insists.

  ‘We’re not gods. The point is that given what we know now, we’re prepared to do something about it. B-Cell is investing heavily in cybernetic prostheses, developing a whole new range of limbs, eyes – new phalange prototypes. These products will go a long, long way towards improving the lives of the afflicted.’

  Atticus frowns. What’s happened to Selwyn? Does the money really mean that much? There was a time, once, when Atticus could appeal to him, make him see sense.

  ‘Selwyn, please, I just need a bit more time. I’ve been working on a way to revert sufferers to their original genome. It’s not finished yet. I’ve been thinking about families, about the way we confer immunity, and how families protect themselves. There are some things—’

  The CEO drops his hand. ‘Tāura, I’m sorry. This company has to evolve to stay profitable, and we are doing that. But we need the development space. And, quite frankly, we need the funds. We cannot afford to support a non-profitable activity. Your group will be disbanded to make way for the robotics division.’

  Atticus glares. ‘What about my staff?’

  ‘The professors left earlier today – we think they may have left the country – and the others are being ... deployed ... elsewhere. It seems none of them are keen to stay with you, since your research is no longer being funded.’

  Atticus is surprised. A close-knit group, he’d expected more loyalty.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he growls. ‘If you won’t do it, then I’ll find someone else to fund my research!’

  The CEO grimaces. ‘Ms Canterell, if you wouldn’t mind.’

  Smiling hawkishly, Canterell hands Atticus a yellowing document.

  Atticus looks at it blankly. ‘This is my employment contract.’

  ‘Yes, and if you’ll turn to pages 12 and 13, you’ll see the clauses about restraint of trade, non-disclosure, confidentiality, and patents. And if I could draw your attention to the bottom of the page...’

  Atticus drops his eyes to the bottom margin. Atticus Tāura. His signature.

  ‘Go home, Tāura. You’re done here,’ the CEO says as he sweeps from the room.

  Chapter One

  New York, 2058

  The rain is coming down hard now, pummelling the windscreen in grey, almost horizontal sheets. Mika frowns. Taking one hand from the wheel, she rubs at her eyes. It’s been a long trip and she’s tired. She can barely see ten metres in front of her.

  The waka rolls violently. Mika purses her lips and shifts the vehicle to a lower gear, struggling to control the vessel in the surging waters. A vehicle bumps her from behind, the waka lurches, and Mika is thrown forward.

  ‘Tangaroa!’ she whispers under her breath, calling on the sea god of her ancestors for protection. The waka pitches again. Mika yanks at the steering, pulling hard to the left to get out of the queue. In the choppy water, the waka is slow to respond. Mika can do nothing more. She holds her breath, her eyes straining to penetrate the wall of rain. Another jolt. The larger transport crowding her from behind. She’s in danger of being sandwiched in, her waka crushed between two hulls.

  Come on!

  She didn’t travel first the Pacific, and then the Atlantic, to be shipwrecked arriving on the dock. She has a meeting to make. Biting back her frustration, Mika guns the accelerator. The prow of her waka touches the transport in front, the way a bull might caress the bullfighter’s cape as it thunders past. Mika exhales as the waka pulls clear. The manoeuvre has prevented a goring, but she’s going to have to head straight to the ramp now. Determined, she squeezes her prow through the traffic, pushing to the front like the smallest kid at a tuck shop queue.

  Coming through, people.

  At last, the waka’s hull touches home. Quickly, Mika changes transmission, and drives the little transport up the ramp onto the land.

  The Ellis Island entry point is in chaos. What Mika can see of it, in any case. Gale-force winds and driving rain have reduced visibility to next to nil.

  Is this the immigration point? Mika opens the window and is immediately soaked.

  A man in a flapping yellow raincoat peers in, his face ruddy from the rain. Even with the wet, Mika can smell the engine fumes. She shivers in her wet clothes, but only partly from the cold. She waits for the officer to scan her pupil.

  Please don’t make me go back.

  The man shakes his head. ‘The bio-scanner is down. Cybernetic reader, too. The console was hit by flying metal. We’re back to working like cavemen. Where are you from?’

  ‘New Zealand.’

  Someone behind sounds a horn. Raincoat man pulls away from the window and roars into the wind. ‘Hold your damn horses, why don’t you? I’ll get to you when I get to you.’ He turns back to Mika. ‘Where did you say?’

  ‘New Zealand. It’s an island—’

  ‘Staten Island? You’re a local? You do know you’ve landed at Ellis? Day like today, you should’ve taken the expressway, not the shortcut across the Bay. What kind of idiot are you? I suppose you wanted to see how your home-made transport handled a storm.’ He shakes his head in disgust.

  ‘No, no, you misheard me. I’m from—’

  But huddled deep in the hood of his plastic raincoat, the official either doesn’t hear, or doesn’t care to hear. ‘All we need. Locals wasting our time, coming through the immigration line. Drive on,’ he grumbles, gesturing impatiently. ‘You’re holding everyone up.’

  ‘I—’ But raincoat man has already turned his attention to the next vehicle in the line. Mika shrugs. If he’s going to make it this easy to get in, who’s she to argue? Sliding up the window, she shifts the waka into gear.

  He shouldn’t have called her an idiot.

  ‘For your information, mate,’ Mika mumbles to herself, ‘this isn’t just any old home-made transport. It’s a waka. And her name is Torua, if you care to know.’ Mika revs the engine, giving the man a good whiff of Torua’s engine fumes, and speeds into the gloom.

  The rain hasn’t abated any as Mika takes the bridge to the mainland. On the road, the visibility is even worse. There are transports everywhere. Their lights glare, the milky beams multiplying in the gloom. Mika slows, getting an earful of honking and tooting from the traffic backing up behind her.

  Keep your hair on.

  She turns on Torua’s GPS system and, doing her best to keep her eyes on the road, punches in the rendezvous point.

  ‘Calculating.’

  The message had said it wasn’t too far from the bridge. Mika doesn’t want to miss the turn-off, or she could end up miles out of her way. She can’t afford to miss the guide.

  ‘Left turn approaching.’

  Mika peers ahead, but can’t make out the intersection through the fog of lights.

  ‘Left turn approaching in ... twenty yards.’

  ‘But I can’t see anything!’ she wails.

  Finally, the intersection fades into view. Hang on, there are two lefts. Which one is she supposed to take: the hard left or veer left?

  ‘Left turn
approaching...’

  ‘Which lane?!’

  The middle, take the middle.

  The lights change.

  Mika guns the engine to get across the gap.

  A vehicle screams towards her.

  Oh my god, oh my god.

  She stomps on the brakes, but already she knows it’s too late. As the two vehicles plunge towards each other, like jousters in a medieval battle, Mika stretches her mind across the ocean to Aotearoa, to her sister.

  Huia.

  Mika.

  The voice is weak and thready. Mika’s heart clenches. Huia needs her. Needs her to get to Vegas. She has to—

  There’s an agonising crunch, followed by a whine that starts in Mika’s teeth and settles in her bones. Torua spirals out of control. Mika is flung sideways, her head glancing off the side of the waka, before she’s thrust upright again in a brutal whiplash. Soundless now, torque and momentum carry the vehicle through the intersection in a slow-motion blur, the front left corner trailing something with it. Obligingly, the object allows itself to be dragged along, throwing up silent sparks and shedding debris. Resisting the urge to cover her face, Mika grips the steering wheel and gently turns Torua into the curve. But the waka has power yet. It hurtles through a barrier, barely slowing. Losing the foreign object, it slides another twenty metres before coming to a stop on a huge traffic island.

  ‘Right turn approaching in twenty yards—’ Mika switches off the GPS, and hunches over the steering wheel, panting. When her pulse has slowed, she takes a deep breath and checks herself over. A few bruises. A bump the size of a small kūmara on her elbow, but otherwise all intact.

  I’m okay. Alive.

  Mika’s heart leaps again. But what about the other driver? The other vehicle?

  Flicking the compression, Mika flings open the hatch, pushing hard against howling wind. She climbs out of the waka, the hatch slamming shut as soon as she lets go. Mika squints through the rain. The bull bars, two rows of thick bars that encircle the waka, have been scraped back to the metal, the barnacles and rust of the ocean voyage sloughed off like dead skin. But, not built to withstand playful whales and floating garbage, the other vehicle hasn’t been so fortunate. Glancing off Torua’s bull-bars, it has struck a tree, and is a mess of broken branches, twisted steel, and glass, the driver door buckled inwards where the two vehicles collided. Instinctively, Mika knows it can’t open. Boots crunching on broken glass, she clambers onto the hood. The windscreen’s gone, leaving a glass-encrusted frame. The driver is slumped forward over the dashboard, oblivious to the rain thwacking at his back. Probably concussed when his head hit the windscreen.